


when our hunger has been sated

by gootarts



Category: Umineko no Naku Koro ni | When the Seagulls Cry
Genre: Femdom, Gangbang, Masturbation, Multi, Pegging, Rape Fantasy, canon-typical battler logic, sexual/noncon content only occurs in the fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:00:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27360892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gootarts/pseuds/gootarts
Summary: Battler is convinced that the reason he keeps having these fantasies is that the puppet master, Beato, has cursed his dick (she hasn’t), because they definitely aren't springing up from his own desire (they are).
Relationships: Beatrice the Golden Witch/Ushiromiya Battler, ushiromiya battler/goat butlers
Kudos: 9





	when our hunger has been sated

Even if the master of the realm was a total asshat, the baths in the meta realm were at least nice. They were the complete opposite of her, in fact—warm, bubbly, the straight-out-of-a-magazine kind of thing you’d willingly get lost in for hours.

Unlike her, they also were only there when you wanted them to be. The baths wouldn’t go around killing people, and they wouldn’t infect his every thought like some sort of weird virus. Because even in this space, the closest place there was to heaven, despite being smack-dab in the middle of purgatory, she still managed to find ways to make her obnoxious presence known. If it wasn’t in the disgusting, gore-filled locked rooms that she bombarded him with, it was in something more subtle, more insidious.

Even with blood and guts spraying everywhere, he was still human. He needed to eat, sleep, and breathe. And, while less urgent than food, there were a couple other more intimate needs that still needed to be met. But every time he’d made that space for himself to get lost in his imagination, her fucking cackling face had always come floating to the surface. And _then_ , to top things off, that witches’ banquet must’ve fucked with his head, because that started to infiltrate his thoughts, too.

He just wanted to bathe, but then that banquet scene popped into his brain and left him with a stiff cock. He could’ve just thought of something else, but his thoughts kept winding back to the end of that game like water circling the drain.

When he was Beato’s furniture, he didn’t really feel anything one way or the other. It was like he was controlling a robot in a video game—they were separate people, and he was just looking in. At least, he was until he felt the pain of his legs being kicked out from under him and the aroma of blood swelled around him.

Unlike everything else, that fear was as clear as day. But the memory it also stirred something deeper in his gut that kept begging to be let out. As if punishing him for refusing, it felt like it was warping his mind; things that would normally have his dick spring to attention grew further away from him, while the mere thought of that moment had his cock straining against his pants.

It had to be her bullshit magic, or something like that. He could already imagine her smirk if he were to ever press the subject, so he’d never brought it up. It had to be some sort of curse or something, to stop him from realizing his full potential. So long as he was pent up like this, he wouldn’t be a good opponent—it would be easy to crush him with a swipe of her hand. That had to be the answer. She must have cursed his dick, or something along those lines.

 _But then why would she do that?_ some part of his brain wondered, but wouldn’t the answer be obvious? She was a pervert of the worst sort, the kind who probably got off on seeing his face conflicted just like it was now. What probably happened was that she wanted him to get so frustrated that he was thinking with his dick, not his head; to do that, she would’ve made it so that he could only get pleasure from something humiliating like that moment at the banquet.

It was useless, it all was. Beato was already fucking with his head long before this, and in far worse ways. He just had to plunge headfirst into that fantasy to show that Beato didn’t have control over him. If he defeated her and rejected her magic, then whatever this was would dissipate; jacking off to something humiliating for him would only be temporary.

He sighed and sunk deeper into the bath as he recalled the scene in his mind. Him naked, on the floor, fear coursing through his veins. The goat-faced butlers were crowding all around him, salivating as he screamed. He tried to stand, but it was all he could do to scoot away on his ass, eyes wide and staring straight into those bloody maws as one of them grabbed his hips.

…That _definitely_ didn’t happen in the banquet. They may have grabbed him, but their hands were like talons trying to rip him apart. The goat in his imagination, on the other hand, had grabbed him firmly by the hips such that its thumbs were pressing firmly into where his legs met his hips. Why was he imagining that? Why was the thought of being touched there twisting his gut and sending spurts of heat through his limbs? 

No, that was all the witch’s trickery. It was pointless to think about anything other than the embarrassing, indisputable fact that it felt…well, _good_. As the goat butler in his head forced him to the ground, he could hear a whimper escape his lips. He didn’t fight his imagination as a second butler appeared from somewhere—where didn’t matter, just that it had the chain that massive collar was attached to, forcing his head and shoulders onto the cold floor.

In that position, he would’ve been able to use his hands to fight it, but the goat would’ve dug its nails deep into his thighs as a warning against any further resistance. His breath hitched in his throat as he squeezed his thighs together, even as his brain conjured up an imaginary flash of pain between them where the butler’s nails dug in.

Then…

His body knew what was going to happen before his brain even suggested the idea, and he lurched forward in the tub, fingers of one hand scrambling for purchase. He knew what would happen. His legs were squeezed together in the tub so tightly that it was starting to hurt, but that didn’t do anything to quell the feeling in his dick, nor did it stop his hand from massaging it. His brain was so overloaded from how his body was feeling that doing anything to stop or even pause his train of thought didn’t even begin to cross his mind.

The goat would’ve paused a moment before unbuckling its pants and revealing its cock. Given that they were human from the neck down, it would be a human’s dick. Even if it was obvious from the second the goat pinned him down, seeing that massive goat towering over him would make him squirm against what was holding him down. His flailing around would only backfire, though; the goat would grip his thighs again hard enough to bruise or even draw blood.

The moan that came out of his mouth in the bathtub morphed into a scream in his fantasy. He would’ve screamed loud enough to hurt his throat, certainly. Enough to tear his vocal cords, possibly. The feeling swelling up at the base of his spine was because the pain or humiliation was veiled by his own fantasy, under his control.

The witch, in turn, would have turned to the noise. There would be no grin or laugh upon her face as her gaze passed over the scene. Somehow, that disinterested expression stung more than a complete refusal to look him in the eyes.

“I told you to make him into furniture suitable for me, did I not? I have no taste for disobedient furniture, whether it be a goat or the last dregs of a human.”

The goats would nod at her scowl.

W-what would disobedient furniture mean to Beato? Given the scenario, that could only really mean one thing. Rip all traces of resistance from his body. That must be why the mob was increasing, why several goats would have taken hold of his limbs as he screamed and pleaded for them to stop and just devour him. The goat in front, its cock already out and hard, would have made the first move, spreading his cheeks aside and—

The splash of hot water on his face shocked him out of his trace, even if it was just for a moment. His spine had bent so far forwards in concentration that it had dunked his head in the tub. It gave him a moment to catch his breath, his hand still wrapped in a deathgrip around his cock. Automatically, his mind started on where the fantasy left off; it felt like a book you had to read cover to cover in a single session, else you would lose track of what was happening. His mind briefly flashed to alternatives, like the butlers becoming hot stacked chicks, but they were a spark compared to the flame already consuming him.

He didn’t know all that much about anal, only that you were not supposed to go in bare. But this was fantasy, and fantasy didn’t need to abide by those laws. The goat would have buried itself with a single stroke as he screamed, clawing at the goats that had taken hold of him. He would’ve been no match for even one of them, let alone the half-dozen holding him. His ass would’ve felt like it was on fire as he tried to wiggle his way out, as if the few movements he was able to do could escape the cock buried in his ass.

The goat would be violent, maybe even animalistic as he pressed itself into him over and over, forcing Battler to submit further with each stroke. There wouldn’t be any escape for him until the thing came hot and sticky all over his ass.

He would’ve whimpered a plea to die already, for the goats to devour him like they did his grandfather moments before. But that wish wouldn’t come to fruition once he realized there were bulges in the pants of the other goats.

With the excitement of a criminal walking to the hanging block, it would’ve dawned on him that watching a spectacle like that would only encourage more to join in.

The sound of fighting would’ve echoed through the hall as a couple of them began to speak with their fists, pummeling the others for a chance to be second in line, but he would’ve have seen it. For a second goat had already taken its place at his head. In a single short moment, his ability to scream was taken from him, too, muffled by the warm flesh shoved into his mouth.

He bit down, as hard as he could at the thing forcing itself into his mouth as the goat screamed. No, it would be less a scream and more a roar of animalistic pain as it smashed down on him. For a second, he would have hoped it had split his skull, but no such thing happened. Instead, he felt his limbs explode in pain as it smashed his arms once, twice, three times before retreating.

The pain in his shoulder was so great that he didn’t notice the second goat pressing inside his ass until it began to thrust. The next goat to press itself into his mouth was smarter than the last one, as he felt its fingers dig into his cheeks, preventing his jaw from closing but still giving enough of an opening for its cock to fit inside.It, too, began to thrust as deep as it could, probably angry that he refused to close his lips and suck on it. Battler couldn’t have cared less.

He’d stopped resisting, hoping that remaining still would make them finish faster. One goat was replaced with another, and another, and another, each one defiling him until he was not human but furniture, fit only to sate them.

By the time they were all satisfied, far more of his body was covered by cum than clean, and his eyes were glazed over, staring straight ahead. He barely noticed when the last one pulled out and was replaced by the witch.

She nudged his body with the tip of her shoe, as if it wasn’t fit to even touch her foot. Body and soul, he was soiled. Forget marriage, employment, being in public—right now, she was proving he was not even suited to be the rug beneath her heels. 

“All that inside you, and you didn’t even get off once. I suspect you might be suitable as my furniture after all.” He didn’t respond. His limbs lacked energy to protest; if he did, she would just wish further punishment. So he stayed there, unmoving, unblinking. 

“I’ll give you one final trial to prove yourself suitable for my furniture.” She lifted the corner of her skirts up, showing him one single glimpse of what he was to endure. He would get only a small glimpse of the harness’ straps, but it didn’t matter—the thing that was supposed to get his attention was the golden dildo it supported. He didn’t remember putting it on her while she was dressing, but it stood there regardless, firm and imposing; she could barely wrap a hand around its base. Such a thing could barely be called a cock so much as a bludgeon, yet he knew beyond any shadow of doubt what she was going to do with it.

A snap of her fingers cleaned his body, but did nothing to wipe the tired, blank expression off his face. The goats retreated, as if sensing that defying the witch would be a far worse fate than what was about to happen to the naked, shivering redhead on the floor.

Her slender fingers picked up the chain for his collar and gave it a yank, forcing the air from his lungs. He did nothing to fight her as she pulled him to his feet; the goats had already stamped out all traces of resistance from his body.

“For furniture being punished, you seem to enjoy it.” Her tongue swiped over her lips as her eyes flicked downwards. He wanted to cover himself, to hide from her gaze, but that was impossible. She filled the entire room, and everything about her stare felt like it could pierce through even lead; gazing upon his hard-as-a-rock cock, by comparison, was child’s play. “You realize that you are only furniture, and at this moment you are serving your master. If you are to gain any pleasure from this moment, you will be given a punishment worse than you can imagine. Understand?”

He would have nodded, barely.

“Good, good. I want to see you get into a more favorable position for this. Prove that you desire my graces.” He got down on the ground, knees bent beneath him before feeling the carpet at his back.

“Hold yourself open for me.” The cock Beato had was curved, the middle swollen up far more than the shaft. He felt himself stiffening at the thought of it pressing into him, unsure if it was from fear or from lust. He grabbed his thighs and spread them open, legs dangling above the floor.

“Look at him! Kiyahahaha! The goats certainly had their way with you.” He couldn’t see his ass, but he could feel the hole left by the goats; it felt almost like something was still shoved in there, preventing him from fully closing his asshole. He felt the heat from the goats’ stares, and for a brief moment, the furniture remembered its sense of shame. It wanted to get away from this place, from the goats watching it like a pet dog shadowing you right before dinnertime. But it couldn’t move a muscle as Beatrice knelt down to its level.

She lifted her skirts until they covered most of his body as she towered over him. Almost instinctively, his legs wrapped around her, ankles crossed behind her back. She lined herself up out of sight until he felt her first thrust. It was hard, sudden, urgent and demanding attention as he felt the swell burrow into him.

The goats were nothing compared to this. Beato filled him, the swell pushing everything in his mind and body aside as it forced him to acknowledge her. Just the pressure alone on his prostate was enough to make him moan as he could feel something beginning to boil at the base of his spine. It flickered and flared in time with her thrusts, threatening to overflow at any moment.

She looked at him like he was dirt, which in that moment, he was. His entire existence at that time was devoted to the feeling inside him as she thrust back and forth, the swell stretching the most sensitive part of his insides before giving him a brief, almost blissful moment of relief. That cycle continued until, finally, that burning feeling in his hips exploded as he came undone.

It snapped him out of the fantasy as it spilled over his entire body, his muscles clenching and releasing in a spasm of euphoria. His mind could only focus on the feeling of ecstasy as it clung to the feeling for as long as it possibly could. Once it faded, he was alone in the tub once again, surrounded not by goats but by water.

As he stood up, glancing down at the milky tendrils grasping for the edges of the tub, he was hit with his first wave of apprehension. And then a second, and a third. _I just jacked off to the witch who killed my family. Fuck._ I-it was justified, right? He was a grown man, after all. And she was an awful, terrible, remorseless person. She deserved that, right?

Right?

He tried to shove the memory into the very back of his brain, never to see the light of day again, but despite that, he definitely felt heat creeping to his cheeks when looking at her face. Even if it only lasted until the first cackle escaped her mouth.


End file.
